Until the Day We Meet Again
by sorceress2
Summary: Based on the book, "The Scarlett Letter", with lots of ExT. R&R, thanx.
1. Golden Sunshine

Until the Day We Meet Again  
  
Based on The Scarlett Letter  
  
An Eriol/Tomoyo Alterfic  
  
Chapter 1  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The great, stately marble halls reverberated with the echocant of solemn monks, their world filled with Gregorian chant, politics, power and mindless corruption. The year was 1587, and the setting was the papal states, the heart of the Roman Catholic Church. Vatican City had never been more stirred. The galleries of the enormous complex housed some of the finest works of art in the world, of Bramante and Bernini and Michaelangelo and Raphael Santi, priceless artifacts and walls lined with gilt-edged folios in fine aged leather. It was the heart of a powerful faith, and the very soul of wealth and power and greed.  
  
On any other day, the endless stretches of artful corridors would have been silent except for perhaps the tremulous tread of a nun, or the fervent walk of a priest or bishop, or of the dogmatic march of the pope and his assorted cardinals. But today it was so very different. Today it was the day that must not be uttered, the day on which a pope was to be chosen. A hum of anticipation, a veritable expectation and tenseness that could almost be touched quivered in the halls which had weathered so much, and today the walk of all inhabitants and visitors was wary, yet joyful. If all went well, then the fervent, zealous young cardinal from faraway Britain might become the pope, His Holiness, ordained by God Himself.  
  
Outside, on the great plaza of Piazza San Pietro, a great throng of populace had lined themselves up to see if this strange, pious new pope would be ordained, chosen by the hand of God. They wondered, truly, if he would be not unlike the last pope, who had executed and schemed and exploited to his own good. Few of them knew, however, that the past pope had also commited serious treason and crimes against God, of which he had committed adultery, murder, and covetousness. The faces were some weary, some expectant, some accepting of whatever was to come. They did not know.  
  
The sun rose above the great expanse of the square, and slowly set. There was a low murmur at two o'clock after noon, when the great doors of the St. Peter's Basilica were thrown open, and a procession of the Holy Cardinals came. Borne on a large carriage, and surrounded by his own escort of the Swiss Guard, was the pope in all his glittering, golden splendor. The pope was carried to his first moments in sunshine surrounded by the pomp and wealth of the Church.  
  
  
  
A young novice turned away from the window, and looked to the Mistress of Novices expectantly.  
  
"Mother, I cannot see why the pope must be carried around with such pomp and wealth, when the countryside here and in Italy starve in famine."  
  
The novice was young, and slender. Only a glimmer of ebon black hair was visible underneath the habit, but it shimmered whenever it caught the light of the glorious apartments. Her brilliantly violet eyes caught the light of the hundred gilded candlebras, and the snow white nun's habit did not detract at all from her beauty. The Mistress of Novices turned to her.  
  
The Mistress was not a very pure woman, as the novice had heard. She was the paramour of one of the cardinals, and as was customary then, she was given a set of better living quarters for her relationship. Few outside Vatican City knew of the impure relationships the titled holders of God's grace had. It was just as well. She was not an evil woman, being kindly though with a propensity towards corruption. Women like her were not uncommon here.  
  
"Child, there is a need to display such wealth and pomp, because the Church must display to its people that there is no reason to fear, that the Church will stay constant forever, no matter what the external circumstances were." The novice nodded slowly.  
  
"It does make sense, Mother." The Mistress of Novices nodded approvingly. She had chosen this novice out herself, and because of her strange intelligence, would rise high, perhaps even become the Mother Superior one day. Then that position would ensure her wealth and admiration. She would rise high.  
  
The Mistress of Novices continued her lecture from the other day, the real inside of the politics surrounding the papacy. She had to teach the girl that it was all terribly corrupt, that nothing was as it seemed, and that anything could be done as long as they were powerful enough to do it. Really, the novice was too idealistic. She had heard that this was how the pope was, too. He might not even last long enough to see his first ten years of popehood.  
  
"Now listen to me, Child. Some nuns here give birth to children, and multiple children at that with questionable parentage. Some of the nuns have three different children by three different men, like Sister Mary Theresa. This is the way that it is here. Everyone breaks their so-called contracts with God." The novice wore a look of blank consternation.  
  
"But Mother, that is breaking their holy oaths with God! Have we all not pledged ourselves to him?"  
  
The Mistress shook her head.  
  
"No, Child. I do fear for you sometimes. Already, I see the 'holiest of holy' men turn their heads to watch you. Do you know what they want from you, Child?"  
  
The novice shook her head slowly, then a blush crept up the pale alabaster cheeks. The girl nodded. The Mistress nodded satisfactorily.  
  
"That's right, dear, they want it. The more we speak of it, the more accustomed you will be to it. It is the way of it here. Sometimes, they might not even ask your assent. They might be drunk like pigs, and just take what they want. Sometimes, they might not even be intoxicated at all. Beware of summons from powerful men. That is all that I can tell you. If you forget all else, just remember, beware of summons from such men."  
  
The novice shook her head sadly, a dream disillusioned and sullied, and turned to watch the procession again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Er, I am ashamed. The very first chapter was sort of bad, if you catch my drift. *Blushes* Don't shoot! I find that my fanfics are getting less and less cuddly. Um, that's sort of bad. If any of you have any ideas for me whatsoever, then please, do e-mail me at sorceress@usa.com Anyway, I am not functioning properly, having just written a thesis paper. It is currently 1:32 in the morning. Huh. Oh well. Good night, or should I say good morning? Adios! 


	2. A Fleeting Moment

Until the Day We Meet Again  
  
Based on The Scarlet Letter  
  
An Eriol/Tomoyo Alterfic  
  
Chapter 2  
  
  
  
  
  
On A Fleeting Moment  
  
The grey heron in a storm's coat  
  
Stalks the shallows of the brook  
  
A silver fish flashes blue-gold  
  
The petal of lotus falls from  
  
Where it blooms in white emotionlessness  
  
Beauty and death dance with chaos  
  
Future teeters evermore on edge of a blade  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Pope Pious II strode angrily into the chambers of his third cardinal. Everything about him exuded a foul mood. He was glaring virulently at anyone in is path-not that there were any- and ignoring the bows and curtsies aimed his way. The promiscuous nuns who frequently bothered him, he being young and beautiful, were certainly not disturbing him now. The pope looked ready to follow his predecessor into bloddthirsty habits. He was certainly not to be toyed with at that time.  
  
Pious II banged the large French doors open, despite the nervous looks on the face of the guards. The lavishly costumed Swiss Guard did not attempt to hamper the pope.  
  
"I want to know what you did with those peasants, Giorgio! What did you do, God damn you?" The pope roared. A red-robed cardinal looked up from several aged manuscripts, copied painstakingly in brilliant color from earlier copies. The cardinal looked nonplussed.  
  
"Your Holiness, I merely made sure that the dirty peasants did not bother your tax-collectors again." Cardinal Giorgio Foscari reeked of a supercilious air. His voice was oily and sleek. The cardinal was enveloped in his voluminous robes, yet it was apparent that he was corpulent. The overpowering scent of imported perfume from the East covered him in a cloud.  
  
Pope Pious gave him an icy, controlled stare. It was more effective than his previous shouts. The pope had never displayed emotion before. Ever. The cardinal looked nervous, now.  
  
"What I wanted, Giorgio, was for your to collect taxes if there were any to be had. There weren't, apparently, from the reports of the monks returning from Tuscany. That was not what I wanted, to quash any resistance into giving tax money that they cannot afford."  
  
"Your Holiness," Cardinal Giorgio said uneasily. "There is always money that they can afford. The trick is getting them to pay you. The lazy peasants will never amount to much, let me tell you."  
  
The pope did not look pleased with this comment. His face darkened again. He seemed to boil in his own anger until he ejected,  
  
"Damnation, Giorgio!" His handsome face black with rage.  
  
"Eriol, please. This is for the best. I have had years of experience dealing with the politics of the Church. Have I not guided you and taught you everything that you have ever known about God?"  
  
The pope turned with a controlled fury. There was a moment of silence, as the pope carefully regained his composture.  
  
"Cardinal Foscari, you will never do that again." His voice was the quiet of a blade whispering out of its sheath. His face was calm, even mild. There was no hint of the passion that had reigned the pope a few moments before. The door closed with a barely audible click. A rustle of old parchment sounded, and another, and then silence reigned.  
  
  
  
Eriol strode up and down the length of his antechamber. The situation was already not good. Peasant uprisings, a small French army ready to invade, Germanic barbarians coming in from the north and raiding villages. And the English were not cooperating. Their king was demanding all sorts of rights. They were supplicants, all, in the face of God! People simply refused to submit themselves to God. What had the world come to? Well, they would soon find themselves in the Pits of Flame, in Eternal Damnation forged in adamantine chains of fire. That was what they could look forward to.  
  
A meek tap at the door came.  
  
"Come in." the pope barked. He despised servants more than anything, always fawning and snooping and listening in on conversations.  
  
It was not a servant, after he had branded the last he caught listening to a conversation between himself and a high bishop from France. It was rather a very young novice, pale and blushing at the sight of him. She was slender like the willows that grew near where he grew up, with brilliantly violet eyes and black hair, very much like his own.  
  
"What is your name?" He asked coldly.  
  
"I am Sister Mary Magdelene, Your Holiness." So, despite such youth, she was a full sister. Her voice was like crystals hung in the wind. Probably another promiscuous, indecent, schemer.  
  
Sister Mary put his evening meal down on the dining table in the adjacent room. He watched her like a hawk. Actually, she hadn't even given him a coy glance yet, and hadn't done anything save to answer his question and blush. She arranged the four forks, five spoons, and three knives with precise, graceful movements, and aligned the six plates for the servant to come and actually stand to serve him his different courses. He felt that he was wasting money that by right belonged to those peasants. It would probably be two servants, since it was Sabbath tomorrow.  
  
He opened his mouth to thank her, when he saw that she was staring at him. It was not an inviting stare, but it was a delving, a penetrating stare. He let her do it for a few moments more.  
  
"Does what you see meet with your approval, Sister Mary?" he asked dryly.  
  
"No." Her answer surprised him so much that it twisted his head around to look at her in surprise.  
  
"Why not?" He asked. Sister Mary Magdelene blushed again, and curtsied quickly.  
  
"Forgive me, Your Holiness. I must have felt faint. Good night to you, Your Holiness." He was about to order her to stay, and to detain her, when a troup of five servants came into the door. Sister Mary Magdelene slipped out when he was busy staring in defeat at the servants. Really, watching him eat wasn't as exciting as it was made out to be.  
  
He signed heavily. Already there were more reports from the North, of the Germans. And two more peasant revolts from the west. And Greece refused the homage that had been requested, and someone was threatening war. It was all turbulence and chaos. It was already in the small hours of the morning that he had time to take his evening meal. It wasn't even evening anymore. And yet, somehow he sensed that dawn was a long time coming. 


End file.
